Battles Waged Quietly
by Carbon65
Summary: It's his own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and it's all his fault. Blaine struggles with his demons and a past he hasn't come to terms with. TW: Self harm, suicidal thoughts. Ongoing WIP.
1. Leg

He looks at the small black plastic container, and slips out a brown paper wrapped blade.  
He goes through the careful motions of unwrapping it.  
He drops his pants.  
And then he waits.

It was like having two people in his head.

He hates himself.  
He should cut himself.  
Hurt himself.  
Kill himself.  
He's worthless. Worthless and out of control.  
A wreck.

None of the Warblers like him. They just tolerate him.  
He's mess it up with Kurt. Messed it up big time.  
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking idiot.

He's ashamed.  
Adults handle their problems rationally.  
They don't hurt themselves.

He doesn't care. He hates himself.  
He hates it when he looses himself.  
He wants the pain to go away.

Except that he likes who he has become.  
He's a decent human being.  
He's worked hard to get here.  
He is happy.  
Except when the child comes out.

Damn it.  
He's going to do it.  
Someplace hidden on his body, where no one will see the scab or the scar.  
Someplace where no one will know.

The blade feels good in his hand.  
The cold metal is calming against his skin.

He presses until he can't feel anymore.  
He presses until the bruised, broken boy inside him is quiet.  
He presses until the mistakes only echo in his head, instead of beating a tattoo.  
He presses until a thin red line shows on his skin.  
He presses until he feels like he's himself again.

Then, he goes through the motions of cleaning himself.  
Cleaning the blade.  
Hiding it away.

He debates calling someone: a hotline, a friend.  
But, now that he's back in his head, how can he say what he did.  
If he admits to it, no one will respect him.  
They'll think he's doing it for attention.  
His adult self knows the consequences.  
That's why he hides it.  
If he tells them that there's part of him that never grew up, part of him that's damaged, part of him that gets wild and sometimes gets let loose, what will they say.  
No one else is so damaged that they lost themselves along the way.  
No one else is so damaged that they're still holding onto an echo of their younger self.  
No one else is so damaged that they lose control.

He can't tell. He can't tell. He can't tell.

He takes the blade gently to the inside of his thigh again, silent tears flowing down his cheeks.

Damn it! He likes himself.


	2. Back

He feels like a fool.  
He hates starting over.  
He hates having to re-learn the rules.

He reaches into the little tin of salve, and eases it over the skin of his back.  
Five new lines cross the once-pristine skin, scarlet pins with jet beads.

He knew the rules at his old school.  
He may not have liked them, but he knew them.  
He doesn't know the rules here.

He doesn't know when to answer questions in class and when to keep silent.  
(He's guessing that keeping silent is normally the answer).

He doesn't know whether to pack his lunch or buy it at school.  
(His stomachache says bring his own).

He can't help objecting when his history teacher makes a false statement.  
It's a little thing, inconsequential, really, unless you're the living legacy of the history.  
Then, it makes all the difference in the world.

The salve smells astringent and herbal and green. There is lemon, and maybe rosemary.  
But, between the salve and the oil, the lesions are fading.  
Soon, no one will be able to tell what he did.

The only problem is that he wants to go do it again.  
It's not even about the strong emotion or the release.  
He just wants to do it because he can.  
He can make blood well up somewhere.

He washes his hands, removing the pink tint.

He shrugs on a clean white undershirt.  
It sticks where he has applied the oily cream.

He takes out a bottle of nail polish remover and soaks a small cloth.

He sets to work rubbing out the black butterfly on his thigh, labeled WES.  
He won't tell the real Wes about this, he decides.  
His skin is red and dry when he's done, but the ink is gone.  
Acetone may be his favorite chemical, ever.  
… No, wait, Ethanol.

Ethanol helps him forget.

He takes out a sharpie and draws a crude butterfly on his leg.  
Maybe this one will last.  
He's not sure if he can hold out hope.


	3. Kurt

He manages.

The idea of cutting sits in the back of his mind like a constant itch that can't be scratched.  
He can see it: a box cutter over the fine, soft skin at the inside of his left elbow.  
If he was brave … or stupid… that's where he would do it.

His body remains unmarked where anyone can see.

He doesn't let himself near knives anymore.  
Doesn't even walk into the hardware store to buy things.  
If someone needs something… if he needs something, someone else has to go.  
It might not be what Kurt or Rachel would do, but they don't have his Achilles heel.

The cuts across his back have long since healed and faded.  
The scars on his leg, where he made neat lines over and over again, are almost gone as well.  
A slight striation, no more.

He keeps a sharpie where his blades used to be. He writes names over the scars.  
Wes.  
David.  
Jeff.  
Nick.  
Trent.  
Thad.  
Brittany.  
Sugar.  
Mercedes.  
Rachel.  
Artie.  
Puck.  
Finn.  
Sam.  
Mike.  
Kurt.

Kurt. Kurt. Kurt.

He wants to do it because of Kurt.  
He knows what he did was wrong, can feel it in every fiber of his being.

He can't eat.  
He can't sleep.  
He fucked up.

But, he prayed that Kurt might be able to forgive his weakness, might understand.

He's a fuck up, a failure.  
He was never good enough for someone beautiful and wonderful like Kurt.  
He ruined things.  
Why can't he just empty himself?  
Why can't he make the feelings go away?

He doesn't because of Kurt.  
Because no one will ever understand him the way Kurt does  
… the way Kurt did.  
No one else will ever be able to accept his brokenness and love him inspite of it… let alone for it the way Kurt did.

He dreams of the kiss of a blade against his skin, but he doesn't give in.  
Because he cannot let go of the thought that maybe, he's not a lost cause after all.


	4. Child

The darkness comes at the strangest times.

It can happen anywhere: The bus in the morning, the choir room, Calculus, the gym. It can happen any time: day or night, although nights seem to be worse. School day, vacation or weekend.

A memory creeps up on him. It doesn't have to be a memory of Kurt, although those are some of the hardest because they're good and bad. It can be any time he's fucked up.

A bad grade.  
A time he disappointed his father.  
His mother's cold indifference.  
Cooper's perfection and fame.  
The Sadie Hawkin's dance.  
Cruel words spoken to him.  
Cruel words spoken to Kurt. Words that echo in his head.

A child's voice, well not really a child's voice, but not _his _voice either, whispers, "Failure. Failure. Failure."  
His stomach drops. His heart speeds up.  
"Cheater. Cheater. Pumpkin eater."

He tries to put the voice out of his head.  
He tries to be good enough.

He's not.

He takes the pills because they tell him to, when he remembers.  
Maybe they can shut up the child in his head. The child that is him.

Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he wants someone to tell the little boy inside of him… not really a little boy, a child… Ten or eleven, maybe. Wants someone to tell the little boy that it's alright to be who he is. That he's not a failure. That he doesn't have to be afraid.

Maybe the only way he knows how to comfort the child is to let him come back over and over again. To let him speak. Even when his words are destructive.

Hes fighting a battle with himself.

And like with any war, everyone is a loser.


	5. Marks

He can't decide if he wants people to see the scars… or if he doesn't.

When they swim, he prays that someone will recoganize the thin lines on his back for what they are,  
or were.

He prays no one will see through his mask.

He wants to self destruct. (_A/N: originally struck through)_  
No, he wants to pause his life.  
He likes where he is.  
He doesn't want to destroy it all….  
Just because he's being stupid.

At the same time, he wants someone to notice what he's doing.  
He wants an authority figure to tell him its not ok.

He wants them to tell him its not okay to hurt himself because he's special  
because they value him as a person.

Not because it's shameful to want to hurt yourself.  
And cutters are to be pitied…  
Or worse, sent away.

He can't tell Mr. Schue.  
The man wouldn't understand.

He can't tell Ms. Pillsbury,  
I figures she'd be obligated to report him.

He can't tell his parents.  
He told them once, and it was awful.  
Made him feel guilty and empty and ashamed.

He can't tell Cooper.  
Cooper is perfect.  
Cooper isn't broken.  
Cooper wouldn't understand.  
And, he'd just tell their parents.

He wishes he had someone in his life like Burt.  
He always envied Kurt's relationship with his father.  
He thought that maybe, someday Burt might be his father in law.  
That's gone now.

...

The sharpie isn't as satisfying as a blade,  
but the evidence is easier to hide.  
He needs it for classes. For labeling … stuff.  
And the blue lines come off with acetone.  
Wonderful, cold, burning acetone.

If he really wanted people to know,  
he'd leave them there,

Right?


	6. Attack

He's on edge the entire week of Halloween.

He doesn't know if it's the season  
The veil between the living and the dead is said be thinner this time of year  
Sometimes, he wishes he was dead.

Maybe it's the hurricane  
They're not badly affected in Ohio, just some snow.  
But it's still scary.

Or, he could be getting sick.  
His throat is swollen.  
His voice is raspy.

Last year was good.  
He spent it with Kurt  
Getting more candy than he'd gotten since he was 10 years old.

He stays up late every night, dicking around the internet.  
He sleeps through his Tuesday morning classes  
And calls it a mental health day.

Tuesday night, he covers himself in sharpie.  
It barely helps quiet his reeling mind.

He goes out on Wednesday with Sebastian.  
Scandals is loud, crowded, hot and noisy.  
He almost has a panic attack.

He puts off his English homework.  
The paper he has to write in English and history is what's setting him off.

He contemplates hurting himself badly enough that he doesn't have to go to school on Friday.  
He knows it's crazy.  
He knows it's stupid.

It's ridiculously tempting.  
But, he doesn't want to be another one of those souls floating through the walls.

He doesn't know how much longer he can go on like this.  
He thinks about calling Wes, and puts down the phone.

He tells himself things will get better.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.


	7. Blades

His life feels like its getting back on track.  
The Warblers care… they want him back. Even if it is just to win trophes.  
He has a family at McKinley, and they care about him.  
He misses Kurt a little less each day.

It's only a week until sectionals.

So, he doesn't know why everything goes to hell.  
He knows it's coming, can feel the edginess in his muscles.  
But, he pretends like it's not there.  
So he can get through what he has to finish.

He listens to calming music.  
He distracts himself with pictures of cats.  
He burries a reference in a facebook post that no one but Kurt would understand.  
Kurt un-friended him three weeks ago.

He should go home, but he can't.  
He's glad he rode his bike.  
He couldn't drive like this; it wouldn't be safe.

The hardware store isn't far from McKinley, maybe five blocks.  
The wind whips through his hair.  
The breeze is cold, even though its unseasonably warm for November.  
He should buy a helmet, but damn it, it feels good.

He locks up his bike by the sidewalk, and walks in the store.  
No, he doesn't want to admit what he's here for; He can wander around until he finds it.  
The smell of wood dust is calming, somehow. It reminds him of pinewood derby cars, back in the days when his daddy loved him.  
Before Cooper left.  
Before the Sadie Hawkins Dance.  
Before he came out.

It takes him three aisles of tools to find what he's looking for.  
His heart pounds, and he thinks maybe he's going to lose it, here in the store.  
Hold it together, baby. Damn it, hold it together.  
Deep breaths.

Hammers.  
Screw Drivers.  
Chisels. Who the hell uses a chisel, anyway?

Finally, he comes to the craft knives.  
He reaches out for the blades, takes a pack of five.  
They're heavy in his hand, but secure.

He wanders through the store,  
looking for something else to buy.  
There has to be something so he doesn't look so suspicious.  
He settles on a bag of candy.  
He needs to stop feeling so guilty.

He pays by the self check out, drops the blades into a bag and the bag into his pocket.  
It's the best $1.23 he's spent in ages.  
There's a bounce in his step as he goes back to his bike.

He rides home through the gathering dusk, the blades in his jacket pocket.  
His legs shake with anticipation the whole ride.  
Maybe he shouldn't bike like this either.

Under the light of a warm, incandescent bulb, he indulges in the thing he's denied himself for months.  
Relapse? Maybe.  
But, it's better than markers.  
Better than binging.  
Better than talking.

The black beads on his leg help quell the panic inside.


	8. Insomnia

It's late. He doesn't know why he's so awake.  
Actually, that's a lie.  
It probably has to do with all the caffiene he's imbibed.

He wants to go to sleep.  
But to get to that sweet oblivion, he has to pass through his head.  
It's still a dark place.

He was never one to count sheep.  
He'd make up stories for himself.  
He'd try to solve math problems.  
He'd read until dawn.

Even when he was little, his brain wouldn't shut off.

His back stings.

There's a long, thin line down his left shoulder blade  
Just shallow enough to break the skin;  
Not even deep enough for the blood to bead up  
In those little black dots he likes.  
Two scratches criss-cross his shoulder  
Raised and red  
If anyone asks, they're from a cat

He hasn't seen in animal in ages.

He wants to tell _someone_  
He wants someone to take away the new blades he's bought  
But he's afraid that if he doesn't cut,  
He'll hurt himself in other ways

He wants people to know what he's doing,  
but he'll do anything to protect his secret.  
Mostly, he wants to stop being so broken  
So crazy  
So worthless  
So fucked.

He wants to be good enough.  
He has no idea what that means.


	9. Scars

He starts putting salve on his back again.  
It's a mess of red scratches and lines.  
Some are new, some are healing.  
The oily herbal mixture stings.

He feels like he's losing his mind.  
All he ever wants to do is cut.  
Cut and sleep. Sleep and cut.  
As he walks to school, he imagines taking a razor down the length of his arm.  
As he sits in class, he imagines running a blade along his ribs.  
As he walks home, he anticipates the joy of slicing open his back.

It doesn't hurt any more, not really.  
At least, not right away.  
There's a scratching pain,  
Then the anticipation as the red line rises on his skin.  
He waits to see the beautiful black beads of blood.

The lines hurt at other times, though.  
His should bag chaffs against the cuts.  
Healing scars buckle when he dances.  
And his fellow boxers notice the marks.  
He's had to lie about the scratches in the locker room and in the ring.  
Pretty soon, someone is going to ask to meet his cat.

He wants to stop.  
Adults don't solve their problems this way.  
He doesn't want to stop.  
Cutting keeps the little boy in his head quiet.

He's trapped in a self-perpetuating loop.  
He just wishes someone could see.


	10. Christmas

For the first time in a long time he regrets doing it.  
Just because he's happy in New Directions  
Just because he has friends  
Just because he might be reconciling with Kurt  
Doesn't mean that he hasn't needed the release

The scratches are thin from the fresh package of box cutters  
Thin and fading

He likes running his hands over them in class as he's thinking  
The mark from English is almost gone  
The mark from AP Government has melted into his golden tan skin  
The fine white lines of integration and differentiation along his spine have almost healed.

The scar from Burt Hummel remains  
He'd almost vomited when he'd heard.  
His heart had frozen in his chest, and his breath had caught in his lungs.  
If he'd had to choose a man to be a father, Burt Hummel would have been his model.  
The line was deep and sharp and painful.  
A single perfect cut.

Now, he's on a train praying to whatever or whoever is listening that the mark will heal.  
Because he's managed to hide it this far from everyone  
Mr Schue, Miss Pillsbury, his parents, New Directions never knew he cut at all.  
Kurt doesn't know he relapsed  
Wes might have guessed, but he can't prove anything. The marks were faded and when he cuts, he goes over the same old scars.

If it was one or two, he could say they came from Lord Tubbington. Or catching a nail. Or falling off his bike.  
But, one bad one combined with half a dozen healing scars is too indicative.  
One bad one that still hurts.  
One bad one that is still red weeks later when the others have faded  
One bad one that will be pink, then silvery white.

He doesn't want Kurt to know because he doesn't want to ruin this Christmas.  
He doesn't want to think about the possibility that Christmases in the future might not be like this for Kurt.

He doesn't want to think about the fact that children are dying.  
He doesn't want to think about hunger and homelessness  
He doesn't want to think about sickness

He just wants this season to be magical again  
A magic that heals bodies and friendships


	11. Resolution

He starts the new year right.  
He cleans every inch of his room, until it shines.  
He washes his clothes.  
He throws away the razors.  
He resolves to be better.

The resolve doesn't last as long as he'd like.  
The hangover leaves him feeling empty and awful.  
And it's hard to change his habits overnight.

He still pushes things back.  
Ignores what he needs to do.  
And occasionally forgets to eat.  
Or eats Skittles for dinner.

He's made it almost two week without a razor, though.  
Two weeks is a long time, right?  
Two weeks is an improvement.  
Nevermind that it takes 40 days to form a habit.  
And school is starting again.  
And his college essay is due soon  
And he has no idea what to write about.

He can do this.  
He will do this.  
He will be a better person.  
He will not fail.

Because he's not sure what he'll do if he does.


	12. Temptation

He tries to take the rebuke with grace, but he has no resilience.

He's still afraid of a misstep that will cause everything to come crashing down.

He attracted the wrong kind of attention.

The sub in English hates him. The long term sub, who will be there for the rest of the year.

He doesn't think he can do this.

He can't run away.

He can't quit.

This is the gatway to the rest of his life.

This is an opportunity.

But, things always get screwed up.

His stomach pounds and fear closes in.

He thinks he might vomit.

He thinks he might crumple if he tries to stand. His legs are numb.

He thinks he might just curl up and go to sleep.

He will not cut.

There is a razor that's survived the purge, but he will not pick it up.

He will not fish old blades out of the bottle turned sharps container.

He will not.

He will be good.

He can be good. Good enough.

He can keep himself from doing it.

Because if he starts again, he won't be able to stop.


	13. Triggers

He knows he's getting bad again; He's just getting better at hiding it.  
He doesn't realize he's triggered until he gets there.  
He doesn't realize why he's triggered.  
He doesn't realize it at all.

The things that set him off shouldn't do it.  
He's never been homeless or hungry or forced to have sex.  
He's not a survivor in any sense of the word  
Beyond that stupid attack.

It's not the proposed Sadie Hawkins dance that sets him off.  
It's not being auctioned off like a piece of meat.  
It's not knowing that his old friends are cheating.

It's being alone in a house at night.  
It's reading about _real _survivors.  
It's recognizing his own survival instincts:  
(the inability to plan his life much beyond two weeks even though he keeps calendars everywhere;  
the way he runs away and hides from everyone and everything when he's afraid  
the fact that he practically nests  
the way he doesn't keep food around, as though he's afraid that he's going to have to leave at a moment's notice  
the way he surrounds himself with other people who are as broken as he is)

He wants to get out of his head  
But he doesn't want any scars.  
The blade that survived his new years purge is hiding in his bathroom drawer.  
And there are still months before summer and any chance anyone will see his thigh.

Although if he's honest, he likes cutting his shoulders more.  
There's more chance for discovery, but also less.  
People have seen his scars, and no one recognized them for what they were.

He's confused.  
He's agonizing.  
He's lonely even when he's not alone.

He wants the little boy in his head to SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP about things he knows nothing about.

He wants to let sleep and oblivion take him.

He puts on a good face. He does his homework.  
He cleans the house.  
He tames his demons.

He's a survivor, right?


	14. Wonderland

His coping skills are wearing this.  
Just because he isn't cutting himself doesn't mean he isn't hurting himself in other, less visible ways.

He lets himself fall into the shadows.  
If he was a smoker, he'd be puffing through a pack a day by now.  
He takes his coffee black and bitter and strong enough to melt a spoon.  
A half forgotten chemistry project makes him that that caffeine and nicotine are related somehow, just different structural arrangements of the atoms.  
Maybe that's why they're so damn addictive.

He doesn't eat regular meals, not unless someone is with him.  
Breakfast is a joke. Sometimes he manages. Mostly he doesn't.  
He gets lunch sometimes in the cafeteria, sometimes not.  
As hard as Mrs. Rose tries, his body rejects the food.  
He didn't know it was possible to leave skid marks on a toilet.  
He should ask Wes about it sometime.

Dinner gets neglected. There is no one in his tiny studio to remind him to eat.  
His parents gave him the keys to the place as a late 16th birthday gift.  
It's his in all but lease title.  
He furnished it in Salvation Army cast offs and Ikea chic.  
The walls are decorated with posters and impersonal prints.  
They build a picture of the boy who lives there.  
The only real objects of sentimental value are the picture from Nationals by his sink, a t-shirt quilt from Dalton Academy, and a huge stuffed animal Kurt won him last year.  
He hasn't been able to throw the last away, even though he knows he should burry the evidence of their old relationship along with his feelings.

He gives up sleeping straight through the night.  
He distracts himself with novels and video games and porn.  
Anything to keep him mind from wandering.  
Anything to keep the emptiness at bay.

Keeping himself on edge keeps his mind quiet.  
It keeps the child at bay most of the time.  
If he pushes himself until he's dead on his feet  
And half strung out from hunger, that little monster inside of him can't rear his head.  
If he'd actually stay on his meds, he'd have a far better chance of holding the kid at bay.

But he can't stay on his meds any more than he can force himself to eat or sleep.  
And so he gets by, waiting for the day of the eruption.  
When the dormant volcano of his life will blow its top.  
He's prepared. He's got that razor in his drawer.

He wishes he had the willpower to get rid of the stupid thing.  
But the truth is that it doesn't matter what form the harm takes, he's needs it.  
Pain keeps him from falling down the rabbit hole or through the looking glass and facing his fears.  
He doesn't know what he's afraid of on the other side.  
But the devil he knows is better than the angel he doesn't.


	15. Steps

He sits in his hole and sings.  
He's not sure he can climb out.  
At least, not until he's sure he's not going to fall anymore.

He's afraid.  
He's so afraid.  
And he can't say the words out loud.  
He's scared that if he tells Tina that he isn't attracted to her that she'll hate him.  
He's afraid that Kurt will never love him again.  
He's afraid that no college will want him next year - never mind NYADA, he'd like to get into OSU.  
He's afraid that if he doesn't hold tight to everything, he'll just fall apart.  
He's afraid that if he tells someone everything, they'll hate him.  
Or tell him he's being stupid.  
Or just laugh.

He won't admit it, but he got sick because he isn't eating.  
He's been trying to grocery shop, but its hard when he gets anxious every time he goes to the store.  
They're loud and harshly lit and crowded.  
The adrenaline beats in his veins and his heart pounds in his ears and his vision blurs and he forgets what he came in for.  
So he goes without food.  
He lets himself exist on words and ideas, music and emotion, water and light, air and darkness.  
If it wasn't for Tina's soup, he might wonder if he hasn't crossed over in the realm of the Sidthe he sometimes reads about.

So, he pushes and lies and tries to make it look like he's floating above the well.  
Like he's drawing water and carrying it, instead of being stuck a million miles down an old mine shaft.  
He pretends like he's fully functional and not afraid.  
That he isn't clinging to a rocky outcropping with chapped hands, bloodied knees and bruised ribs.

He pretends like it isn't dark in both directions.  
He knows what there is to fall back into.  
It's dark and dank and cold.  
But, it's a dark he knows well.  
With its familiar demons and their incesent cries.

Up above, he sees a faint circle that is sunlight.  
And he can hear the songs of the birds.  
He can hear the faint cries of his friends and they try to reach him.  
Thad is there, encouraging him.  
When he called Thad, the older boy bullied him into getting back to his medication.  
He supposes its helped; he's sleeping again.  
Wes stands at the edge too.  
He couldn't tell Wes what happened, but he took the name of the therapist Wes suggested and finally made the call.  
He can almost imagine the warmth of the sunlight.

But, he's paralyzed with fear.  
He's afraid to fall again.  
He's afraid that things will get worse.  
A step backwards when you're clinging to a rock face is a thousand times scarier than when you're on level ground.


	16. Resilience

His problem is not that he cannot find happiness.  
He can be down right jolly and gleeful.  
He enjoys his friends.  
He enjoys singing and dancing.  
He had fun on ridiculous the ridiculous adventures.  
And that night with Kurt.

The problem is that he can't bounce back.  
One little thing and his day goes topsy-turvy.  
It can be in the lunch room, if he gets unsure of himself and almost bumps into someone.  
It can be in English, when his teacher tells the entire class to quiet down.  
It can be in Glee when Marley and Jake and Ryder have their ridiculous three-way show down  
And no one and nothing else matters, except for Mr. Schue and his drama  
It can be when he gets home and checks his Facebook feed  
And sees that Kurt and Adam have had another date  
It can be when he calls his mother to let her know that he's alive and not dead in a ditch somewhere  
And she starts going off at him about how Cooper is shiftless and lazy and hasn't had an audition in four months  
And he had better not go into show business because he's going t end up alone and unemployed just like his older brother.

Afterward, he can't clear his head.  
The negativity just eats at him bit by bit,  
Until he's about to scream or cry or hit something.

He spends a lot of time pounding the speed bag in his apartment lately.  
He spends a lot of time walking along side the creek;  
The water and the woods are pretty in the snow.  
He spends a lot of time biting back his own vitriolic remarks.  
Because he desperately doesn't want to be that person for someone else.

He tries to hold it together.  
He tries to bounce back.  
He tries to be like the old children's rhyme and be rubber.


	17. Friends

He finally admits it to Trent and Sam, and lets them take over.  
Trent, exhausted with his own problems, turns him over to Sam and Tina.  
They make him laugh with impressions and lewd comments and gossip.  
They order pizza and compare the garlic sauce from the various establishments  
(Sam concludes that it could be thicker).  
They suggest that he throw things and scream and yell.

He shakes, the tremors physically taking him.  
He tries to leave, to go home where he can be alone  
But they won't let him.  
They hold him and insist he eat more pizza.  
And he does.  
Because he's afraid of what he will do.

He refuses the let Trent draw a butterfly.  
Because he's not sure he can keep it.  
And the lines under his tank top are still red  
Even if he knows they won't scar

He messages Wes, too.  
Makes a promise not to kill himself until he finishes writing his mass.  
Because the time it will take him to finish that masterpiece  
And it will give him something to hold onto  
While he imagines a future _without _whatever he's holding out for  
A future without Kurt?  
A future without himself?  
He doesn't know. He just doesn't know if h can go on this way.  
And he can't imagine anything else.

But, he's tired. He's so damn tired. Of everything.  
He wants to rest. To sleep, perchance to dream.  
Because someone said the future belongs to the dreamers  
And a small part of him wants to survive to see that.


End file.
